


you have a way with me, stay with me, sway with me

by Mothfluff



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Getting Together, basically Peraltiago will always just FIT together even if they don't even plan it, new couples and old routines, to the point of moving in together without actually moving in together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29967522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfluff/pseuds/Mothfluff
Summary: Amy Santiago was in his bed.Amy Santiago was in his bed, wearing his shirt.Amy Santiago was in his bed, wearing his shirt and had cuddled him all through the night.It was mind-boggling. But more than that, it was… right. He’d always expected a little bit of a freak-out from either side - whatever would’ve led to this situation was sure to warrant some nervosity or panic or worry or confusion. But there was none. Amy Santiago was asleep in his bed, and had spent the night cuddling him, and was going to wake up and take a shower and drink some breakfast tea in his place, and it felt like it was exactly the thing that was always supposed to happen.-*-When Jake checks up on Amy during an undercover mission at a dance club, she feels the stress finally fall off her shoulders. What starts out as a promising make-out turns into pure comfort and care as Amy finally gets some proper sleep and Jake gets a taste of what a life with Amy could be. They slip into a comfortable routine all too quick, but what will happen when it all goes back to normal after the mission?
Relationships: Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago
Comments: 14
Kudos: 57





	1. only you have that magic technique / when we sway I go weak

An immense bass was booming into Jake’s ears and he wondered how anyone could actually  _ enjoy  _ this as a night out as he made his way past the overflowing dancefloor to the bar, which was equally as packed and weirdly sticky, he noticed with a shudder as he leant on it to see down into the back. His eyes were searching almost frantically as they jumped from barkeeper to barkeeper until they settled on one of them a bit further down and his heart skipped a beat.

He was allowed to be here. In fact, he’d been ordered to be here, he had to remind himself. Holt had actually sent him out to check up on her, even though she updated the captain about her undercover mission at least once a week. Her notes had become, and Jake mentally quoted Holt’s stoic voice, ‘erratic and short’, which translated to  _ her  _ meant absolutely catastrophic. So, obviously, both he and Jake had become slightly worried, and when the evening briefing had ended, Holt had taken him aside and asked quite personally if he would give him an update on the detective himself, no matter what undercover rules were broken. He was just the man for the job of breaking rules, obviously, nothing else needed to be given as reasoning why Holt would send him, and why he would so readily accept spending his night before another morning shift at a dance club.

But even so, with all his knowledge of being allowed and practically ordered to be here, none of that managed to convince Jake that he wasn’t intruding on something very… private as he finally spotted Amy behind the bar, a bottle of whiskey held high and pouring a very dramatic shot into a mixer.

He hadn’t seen her for weeks, and even though he knew that it made no difference whether he saw her each morning or not at all for six months, that she would inevitably always take his breath away just a little bit, but this was… different. She looked incredible. Not a hint of pantsuit or sensible, work-appropriate ponytail in sight. Her hair hung open and slightly curled over her shoulders, some strands flowing into her face as she shook the mixer for a cocktail. Her white tank top, shining in the ever changing lights of the dancefloor, was cut so low he could see bits of a black bra poking out. There was a very clear line of olive skin on her exposed midriff before some very skinny jeans made him remember that Amy’s butt was something that could completely break his attention during any briefing in seconds.

Jake could hear himself audibly swallow even over the constant thumping of the bass around him.

He’d actually teased her about this assignment - because that’s what you do when you’re Jake Peralta and hopelessly in love with your gorgeous coworker who has just been told she has to pretend to be a barkeeper at a new, insanely fashionable dance club that is suspected to be used as a front for some major drug dealer meet-ups. 

“Wow, Santiago. Are you gonna break out the neon pantsuit for this?” He’d grinned and then gasped across his desk while she tried to ignore him. “Or maybe even a…. t-shirt?!”

He’d obviously imagined what kind of outfits she might wear for this undercover mission, in private, when his facial expressions couldn’t give him away. He had not, in any way, shape or form, imagined this. It was definitely a simpler outfit than he had thought up, but considering that it still knocked the air out of him, he had to admit to himself once again how utterly lost he was on her. A tank top and skinny jeans, and yet it felt as if he was seeing her in some sort of lingerie.

All his staring barely made him realise that she had spotted him, worked her way over to his end, and was now actually leaning on the bar in front of him. He was expecting an angry glare for intruding on her mission, not that… happy twinkle that was in her eye right now.

“What can I get you?” She yelled over the bass, and he tried as hard as possible to remember any kind of alcoholic beverage while attempting not to stare down into her cleavage.

“Rum and coke, please.” 

She gave him a smile and began to pour. Maybe he should’ve ordered some elaborate cocktail in order to have some time chatting her up, he scolded himself, to actually get some info he could bring back to Holt. But she didn’t seem to plan on leaving his part of the bar anyway, even after the cool glass and some damp cash had changed hands.

“New here?” She winked at him, and it actually looked more convincing than any wink he’d ever seen from her before.

“First time, actually.” He wasn’t sure how loud his voice had to be to beat the speakers, but she nodded.

“You picked a good night then. Not too full, but still some great people around. And a good DJ. Make sure to hit the dance floor!”

He wanted to reply something - he wasn’t even sure what - when two guys barged in next to him.

“Hey, sexy! Two Mexikaner shots for us, and one of whatever you like for you!”

They gave her a leery once-over and Jake was glad the glass in his hand was thicker than most, or he might’ve broken it from squeezing. Amy just gave them a grin, poured the disgusting, red pre-mixed shot for them and then something clear from an unmarked bottle for her. They clinked their glasses, and she knocked it back like a pro.

It seemed so strange seeing her in this setting - everything about it was a little bit off. The whole place didn’t fit her, her clothes (that definitely fit her), her movements, her looks and empty smile for the customers, her mindless chatter about dancing as the only conversation they could have without blowing her cover. It could be a fun little fantasy for him, or maybe even material for teasing her later when she finally returned to her desk, but he could barely focus on that. All he could think about, seeing her here now, close to him and yet far away, was how much he’d missed her. Three measly weeks was all it took, three weeks of an empty desk in front of him and no joyful voice during morning briefings and no rolled eyes at his jokes and no bickering back and forth during stake outs or door duty, to make him feel like half of his life had just up and left. It was almost pathetic, he thought, to be so hung up on someone he wasn’t even  _ dating,  _ but then Amy laughed at something one of the other guests at the bar said and any negative thought was immediately blown out of his mind just from hearing that wonderful sound again.

He spent a good twenty minutes nursing his warming rum & coke while watching Amy working up and down the bar. Every other asshole seemed to order a shot for her as well, and every single one of them was checking her out in a way that made him feel sick to his stomach. He’d counted eight shots by the time she came back around to his end, and even though he could not remember which description eight-drink-Amy had gotten from Gina, it certainly wasn’t the clear-eyed and non-shaky Amy that was now standing in front of him again.

“You’re not gonna dance tonight?” She yelled, perfectly meeting the vocal point where she could be heard over the thumping music without sounding like she was screeching. She  _ had  _ been working at this bar for a good three weeks now, and she looked so at ease in this unusual setting. Jake only shook his head.

“Go on, honey.” And boy, did that pet name make him feel things. “I’ll still be here in half an hour if you need another drink.”

She winked again, and it only took him twice as long as usual to understand that she was trying to tell him something. What, exactly, he couldn’t figure out, but being faced with her smile and yet another peek of black bra from the side that he tried so hard to ignore made sure all he could do was nod and get up from his seat. One rum & coke, and he felt as unsteady as if he’d just downed a whole bottle. But maybe that wasn’t the alcohol working on him.

Dancing wasn’t really an option on the stuffed dancefloor, especially not if he tried to keep close to the bar. There were several arms flailing into his face, and at least one elbow to his stomach, but he managed to settle into a quite acceptable white-guy-sway and wondered what exactly was going to happen in half an hour that Amy had hinted at.

Twenty-five minutes later, he finally understood as he felt two hands on his shoulders and turned around to face her and her wonderful smile.

“Care for a dance?” She didn’t have to yell too loudly this time as the party-goers around them pushed them closer to each other. “My boss gave me the rest of the night off.”

He only nodded and tried to get back into his white-guy-sway, but it was a bit more difficult with Amy shaking all around him and the music slowly turning from thumbing club sounds to a bit more mellow, yet still party-worthy hits.

“Is eight-drink Amy a better dancer than three-drink-Amy?” He tried to joke at her, make something normal out of this situation that he didn’t know how to handle any other way, but she only gave him a quizzical look and he felt the need to explain his joke the way he never usually would have to. “Because, you know. You had eight shots. Not that I counted or anything, except I guess I did.”

She laughed at that and pulled him a bit closer. His hands almost automatically landed just above her hips before he could scold himself that that wasn’t appropriate at all, and their dancing turned more into a combined sway to the definitely slowing music, as Amy made no move to distance herself from him or get rid of his hands anywhere on her. If he’d paid any attention to something around him other than Amy, Amy,  _ Amy, _ he might’ve noticed most people on the dancefloor pairing off into twos for some slow-dancing as the night’s party wound down.

“The barkeepers always have a bottle of ‘water-quila’ for the free shots we get.” Pulled him out of his reverie as she physically pulled him down to whisper directly into his ear. Oh. Water. Of course. That made a lot more sense, he reasoned as he felt her hand still around his neck, the wisps of hair against his cheek, her lips barely grazing his earlobe as she spoke again. “Were you worried about me, Peralta?”

“No- I mean- you can hold your own- and don’t need- but-” He stammered while her hand still wouldn’t leave his neck, this overly professional use of his name a stark contrast to their dancing bringing them almost uncomfortably close to each other, and he was yet again reminded of her very low-riding skinny jeans as his fingers slipped from the fabric up to her bare midriff without even wanting to. “I was just thinking, getting drunk on the job and with all those guys staring at you-” as if he hadn’t been one of them raking their eyes up and down her body, he mentally muttered at himself.

“There’s always at least one guy offering to take me home after my shift.” He could feel her grin against his ear as she kept whispering and God, if he wasn’t careful she was definitely close enough by now to feel what that was doing to him. 

“I always tell them no, of course.” Her other hand landed on his neck as well, thumbs stroking up and down right behind his ears as she finally brought her face in front of him. The look in her eyes was so foreign, yet so very obvious. “But I might make an exception tonight…”

He couldn’t see anymore if the look on her face changed at all, because by now his lips were on hers, his hands on her lower back - slipped under the shirt almost involuntarily - pulling her even closer, the attempt to dance all but forgotten as she returned his kiss just as fervently as he had started it.

He’d missed her, so much, more than he was probably willing to admit, but not even like this. They’d been nowhere near anything like this, even with both of them single again and the constant tension hanging in between them from badly timed confessions and realisations that neither was willing to address. But they were here now, standing in the middle of a grimy dance floor, kissing as if they’d just met and found the sparks flying, and he wondered why in the world he had waited literal years to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Mexikaner is a shot made of vodka, tomato juice, tabasco, salt, pepper, and maybe some orange juice. It is incredibly disgusting and exactly the right shot for some douchebags at a dance club trying to be cool.


	2. like a lazy ocean hugs the shore / hold me close, sway me more

It all happened in a rush she barely remembered. She’d pulled him out of the club before everyone else was beginning to swarm out during closing time, and he’d pulled her away from everything into a cab - his Mustang was probably back at the precinct, because he obviously knew he would have to get at least one drink to warrant his visit. 

She gave a very quick, very short mental thanks for New York cab drivers who didn’t really care what was going on in their backseats as long as they were kept clean, because the eight blocks back to Jake’s flat were mostly spent half on top of each other. His hands roamed all over her body, modestly keeping above her shirt unlike they had back at the club, yet still sending up goosebumps all over her just like then. His mouth wandered from hers across her face, her neck, her shoulders and collar bone. She would have to wear something far more high-cut tomorrow to hide all the hickeys and lovebites he was definitely creating with every little moan she let out that spurred him on.

The tumble up the stairs and into his apartment wasn’t much better. Finally inside, he aimed to push her right back against the wall, only for a hastily thrown leather jacket to tumble over a small stack of bottles near his kitchenette. He broke away from her with a quiet “Fuck, sorry, I gotta- oh shit, there’s beer everywhere-” as she noted a few of the bottles had broken open. As messy as Jake was, even he presumably wasn’t a fan of his entire place smelling of beer and soaking his floorboards with the sticky, quickly drying alcohol. She watched him as he picked up the broken bottles, reaching for some towels and paper napkins and anything else he could find to soak it up.

Amy wanted to help, but her aching legs made her halt for a second longer at the wall she was still leaning against. She was trying to focus her mind that had been swirling all over during the dance and the ride and the walk back here, and she could feel the fatigue finally seeping in.

A look around the room didn’t help. It was almost shocking just how comfortable his place had already become for her. It’s not like she was over often, considering they were barely back to being friends over co-workers, with all their baggage from the past years. A few times maybe, to work on some difficult cases after hours, huddled together at his kitchen counter and accidentally sipping from each other’s coffee and making a face about the intense sweetness or bitterness. A few more times, possibly, when she’d finished a particularly harrowing case and couldn’t face the thought of sitting in her quiet apartment alone, instead picking up some pizza on her way to him and pretending like having a movie marathon with a random co-worker without even an invitation was a totally normal thing to do. Thankfully, he’d never called her out on it, but rather asked out of the blue if she wanted Chinese or Thai on days when he had finished an equally stressful case, offering that unspoken invitation - or maybe even request - to come over and give him some company.

Maybe she had been over more times than she would care to admit. Maybe she was far more used to the place than she should be. As it stood, everything she saw in the dim light coming in from the street outside radiated comfort and peace to her. The worn-down sofa with just one big, soft blanket slipping off of it, the messy coffee table in front, the kitchenette with a sink full of dishes and random cereals and chips packets strewn over the counter, the window leading out to the fire escape, covered in glow in the dark star stickers and one half-broken string of lights that flickered on and off repeatedly.  _ Home,  _ a voice deep, deep inside her whispered,  _ you can calm down. You’re home. _

And it was such a ridiculous notion - this wasn’t her place, it wasn’t even a place she officially considered part of her daily life - and usually she would’ve scolded her inner voice for being so far off from reality, but right now she was tired. She was so tired, and worn down, and if being  _ home  _ meant she could finally let go, then she decided to be home, goddamn it all.

She could feel the weight of her bones, the stress on her muscles, the constant thrum of a headache from the noisy club, the ever-present need for her eyes to close, for her brain to shut down for just a while.

The undercover mission had been nothing but stress, a constant attack on all her senses. She had to learn so much - pretending to be a brilliant bartender when all she’d ever had before was beer and the rare Tequila sunrise - and remember so much and act like it was nothing, all while keeping an eye out and observe the club and the guests, hoping to catch some information about the potential drug dealers while fielding the constant flirting and leering from regulars and making drinks and running back and forth and staying on her feet for hours straight during the nights while the music thumped, the lights flashed, the sticky heat rose behind the bar. And when that was done with and she was finally back home, she couldn’t rest until her report was done, until she’d taken down anything new she’d managed to find out, until she’d wiped off the grime and sticky stains from her arms and face, too tired to take a proper shower most days, and when she finally crawled into bed the sun was already shining bright into her bedroom, and sleep was anything but restful. Only to repeat this entire cycle the next night, and the next, and the next, for almost three weeks now, missing out on her actual work and her colleagues and her friends and days just sat behind a desk filling out paperwork, or musing over clues on a board in the briefing room, or doing door duty for another string of B&Es.

She was so tired. She was so worn out. And it all came crashing into her right at this moment, in the utter peace and comfort of Jake’s apartment, the quiet only interrupted by the clinking of bottles and the sound of Jake dealing with his mess.

When he finally came back to her, laid a hand on her cheek for her eyes to flutter open again, she was surprised she hadn’t actually fallen asleep standing up and remembered that she had come up here for a reason, a very tempting reason. But all of that actually enjoyable, nice tension seemed to be gone as she looked at him now. There was a tiny smile on his face, and his eyes were shiny and soft, none of the darkness and blown pupils from minutes ago.

“Hey, Santiago.” He said in a careful, quiet voice. “You okay?”

“M’sorry.” She mumbled, her eyes falling closed again and leaning into his touch on her cheek. “M’just… M’sotired,Jake.Sotired.”

Her shoulders slumped down as she finally let go of seemingly everything, leaning forward against him, knowing deep down that she finally could because he was there, and he would catch her.

And he did, his arms around her waist, so much more careful and soft than they’d been when he’d pushed and pulled her fervently into the door a moment ago. He held her steady against him as she softly groaned into his shoulder, the last rush of adrenaline finally out of her body, a small tear travelling down her cheek and dripping against his neck because she was just so exhausted, mumbling “M’sorry” again.

“Alright. It’s alright, Amy.” He whispered. “Let’s get you into bed for some actual sleep, hm?” He tried gently leading her with a step towards the bedroom, but her legs weren’t hers to command anymore as she just dragged along with him.

“Okay.” She heard him softly again, before two hands slid from her waist down past her hips, gripping her thigh and bum and suddenly lifting her up. It was nothing more than a reflex that had her snaking her legs and arms around him and holding on as he carried her.

Even in her sleepy state, she was expecting him to just drop her onto the bed so she could doze off. The cold tile of his bathroom sink on her thighs slightly startled her even through her jeans.

“You’re a sticky mess, Santiago.” He joked softly, still standing between her legs. “I’m not letting you spread that all over my new sheets.”

She grumbled as he pulled over to the side, and squinted her eyes against the bathroom lights behind them, far too harsh compared to the hazy darkness of her face against his shoulder. She immediately buried back into it and only heard a small chuckle as something warm and soft began to wipe down her arms. She remembered dropping about half a bottle of coke down them earlier that night, so maybe Jake had a point.

As he dropped the washcloth he’d cleaned her arms with and leant over to grab something from the other side, she hummed and placed a few soft kisses along the parts of his neck she could reach without moving too much. Maybe that was a move in the wrong direction for the night, she thought as he suddenly pulled her tank top over her head. Before she could protest and reiterate just how tired she was, her bare chest was already covered up with a much larger, much softer, and definitely not soda-stained shirt. 

She let out a slight  _ oh  _ before leaning against him again, legs still wrapped around his waist to hold him close because he was warm, okay, he was warm and soft and maybe she didn’t even need a bed to fall asleep, maybe all she needed was another good long hug from her goofy partner who was so sweet and careful all of a sudden.

His hands hesitated before they slipped back under the shirt then, up her back to unhook her bra, only to slip back out and into her sleeves to pull it off without ever undressing her. (A sleep-deprived Amy wondered if she should’ve stopped him at any point, but didn’t really care - he would’ve gotten her out of her bra at some point this night either way, and this way actually felt far more polite than anything she had planned. A slightly less tired Amy would’ve wondered how the hell he had learned that trick that usually stunned most men when she’d pulled it off herself. A properly rested, awake Amy would remember Gina telling her and Rosa once at Shaw’s that she’d trained teenage Jake to be the perfect after-party caretaker, including removing fake lashes and bras without being immodest.  _ Girl, have you ever actually slept in your bra? No way am I putting my perfect boobs through that sort of pain. Jake’s a good egg, and he never gets so drunk he can’t help you out. _ )

She tried to imagine what would come next in this unusual night time routine - surely he wasn’t going to brush her teeth or something - when it seemed like he could actually read her mind with a quiet “You want some mouthwash?” that definitely sounded like he was grinning.

Amy shook her head, still firmly planted against his shoulder.

“I wan’ sleep.”

“Okay, okay.” And with that, he lifted her up, and she immediately gripped him like a Koala again, as if that was something completely normal they just… did.

He did drop her on the bed this time, and she immediately twisted around to hide her face from the light again, although this time against the duvet instead of his shoulders. His mattress was lumpy and the sheets were slightly scratchy and it was the most comfortable, wonderful bed she’d ever laid down on.

She could feel his hands pushing up the hem of her - well, his shirt, and skirting along her waistband. Of course. If he was fastidious enough to not let her sleep with an uncomfortable bra on, he was definitely not letting her sleep with skinny jeans that sometimes felt like they were cutting off circulation to her feet. 

While he carefully, slowly unzipped her pants, as if giving her time to protest, Amy remembered with a slight horror racing through her tired brain exactly what she was wearing. As did Jake, judging from the quiet chortle he let out as he began pulling down her jeans only to discover a pair of extra small men’s boxer briefs. 

“They’recomfy” She protested, hiding her blush behind a pillow.

“Sure.” Was the only answer she got while her jeans were pulled completely off of her and she quickly hid her cold legs under the warm covers.

They  _ were  _ comfy, and she had worn them sometimes even before her undercover mission - mostly on her free days at home, when pajamas and the couch were the only things on her mind - but they had also become a bit of a grounding safety net. As sexy and un-Amy-ish as she had to dress for this whole bartending deal, and as many guys were trying to stare down her cleavage every day, deep down she knew that there was nothing special or sexy waiting in her pants. Other women would sometimes talk about how wearing lingerie felt empowering to them, even if no one ever saw it. Amy had realised that she felt twice as strong in these damn boxer briefs, even if she did wonder how ridiculous it would look to anyone that might see her undress. 

Well, Jake had seen her undress now, or rather undressed her, and he had laughed at them. But was that so bad? It hadn’t even been a full laugh, just a quick chortle, and maybe she should stop thinking about how Jake reacted to her underwear, but he would’ve been faced with them in rather different circumstances today if she weren’t so tired, and, well… there was a little bit of her - okay, a lot of her - that wanted him to not laugh. To look at her in  _ that  _ way, the one she’d caught and stored away in her mind for special, quiet moments.

Because yes, she’d seen the way he looked at her tonight from across the bar, she’d seen the way he’d sometimes looked at her lately even at the precinct, when he thought no one would notice. She wasn’t used to it at all, but she recognised desire when she saw it so brightly in someone’s eyes. And it felt… good. Surprisingly good. Because it was Jake, and if he looked at her like that, after everything that had happened, maybe there was still a chance. Maybe there was still an option of actually giving in to that look herself, and not being refused because he’d ‘gotten over her’, as he sometimes claimed.

But the look wasn’t there when she snuck a quick glance at him now, even as she was lying in his bed in nothing but a shirt and underwear. There was nothing dark in his eyes, nothing needy or wanting, just softness and… adoration, she realised even through her sleep-fogged mind.  _ Love,  _ the deep voice inside her came alight again,  _ that’s love and nothing less.  _ but she shushed it down yet again, too tired and too scared to even think about it for any longer.

She tried to fall asleep instead, finally truly comfortable and all tucked up in bed, but suddenly… she couldn’t. She still felt weary, and everything hurt just a little bit, and she was sure that if she finally dozed off, she wouldn’t be able to wake up for at least 12 hours.

But she couldn’t.

Not until the quiet clinking and clanking from Jake’s own bathroom routine had ended. Not until he’d pulled another shirt for himself out of his dresser, obviously having sacrificed his usual sleep shirt from the bathroom to her, and slipped it on. Not until he’d hopped up and down on one foot getting out of his jeans, revealing almost the same style of boxer briefs and a very, very nice view of his bum before pulling some sweats over it. _Samesies!,_ a different voice in Amy’s sleep-addled brain yelled, and it sounded so much like Jake it made her grin. Maybe he hadn’t actually laughed at her choice of underwear, but rather about the same thought.

She couldn’t fall asleep until he’d slipped under the covers on the other side, bundling himself up and keeping a respectable, friendly distance from her as if they hadn’t shared several ounces of saliva not even half an hour ago. 

She only truly fell asleep once she rolled over and buried her face in his shoulder again, breathing in that typical scent of body wash and deodorant mixed with just a hint of sweat after a day’s work that never managed to gross her out, but rather felt like the familiar smell of Jake she could always return to when they huddled up on the couch for a movie session or celebrated a closed case in a tiny, cramped booth at Shaw’s. She fell asleep right then and there, feeling his arm sneak around her again to pull her a little bit closer, and that voice inside her head let out one last little sigh of content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is basically what the entire fic was based on. Because there's nothing more heart-warming than feeling incredibly exhausted and sleepy and being taken care of. And also because the idea of Amy in boxer briefs was too hilarious to ignore.


	3. like a flower bending in the breeze / bend with me, sway with ease

The alarm on his phone going off barely four hours later was the worst thing Jake had ever heard, and he well and truly hated that alarm on regular days anyway. He swiped it off as quickly as possible, but Amy was already moving, snuffling, definitely waking up.

“Shh, no.” He whispered as he snaked out his arm from under her and pulled the cover back up to her shoulders, planting a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep. Back to sleep.”

“Mrrhn.” sounded a bit like a complaint and a refusal all at once, but at least her eyes stayed closed as she buried herself into his warm side of the bed while he got up.

He sneaked into the bathroom as quietly as possible, picking up some fresh clothes on the way. No shower today, he decided while brushing his teeth, the noise would probably wake her up even more, the guys at the precinct could handle two-day-smell Jake for all he cared. His eyes landed on the white tank top and black bra, a stark contrast of colour next to his sink. Considering how much that bra had tortured his brain at the club, it had become significantly unimportant when Amy was all soft and snuggly and so  _ tired  _ in his arms here in the bathroom. 

He picked up the shirt - he would make a nicely folded pile with her clothes for her at the top of his dresser, he decided, because if there was one thing Amy Santiago appreciated, it was a neat collection of things - before he noticed the major stains on it. Well, if there was something Amy Santiago appreciated even more than a neat collection of things, it was a well-executed cleaning process. He plugged and filled the sink, cursing his lack of a washing machine, dunked the shirt and just enough detergent and bleach in it to let it soak, and got dressed.

(The bra and jeans alone made a much better-looking pile on top of his dresser, anyway.)

Checking on her - back asleep, luckily - on his way to the kitchen, making some coffee as silently as he could and putting out a mug and some honey and the tea she’d left during their last late-night-case-work on the counter, he kept glancing back to the half-open bedroom door and the small sock-clad foot he could see hanging off the edge of his bed.

Amy Santiago was in his bed.

Amy Santiago was in his bed, wearing his shirt.

_ Amy Santiago was in his bed, wearing his shirt and had cuddled him all through the night. _

It was mind-boggling. But more than that, it was… right. He’d always expected a little bit of a freak-out from either side - whatever would’ve led to this situation was sure to warrant some nervosity or panic or worry or confusion. But there was none. Amy Santiago was asleep in his bed, and had spent the night cuddling him, and was going to wake up and take a shower and drink some breakfast tea in his place, and it felt like it was exactly the thing that was always supposed to happen.

A smile broke across his face as he sipped his coffee and watched the foot wiggle a bit and quickly draw back under the covers for warmth. He downed the cup after a look at his watch - he was already late - and pulled out a notepad and pencil from one of the many mounds of random stuff on his coffee table to leave her a note with his usual chicken scratch.

_ Good morning Amy or good whenever it is you wake up _

_ Hope you slept well enough.  _

_ Your shirt is in the sink. Help yourself to any flannel - not the red one, that’s my favourite. _

_ You have free range of the bathroom and kitchen of course, I think you know where everything is. _

_ xoxo Jake  _ (with an extra flourishy J for dramatics)

_ P.S. : don’t go looking through the medicine cabinet though that’s just plain rude Santiago _

_ P.P.S. : unless you need some aspirin I guess then go ahead _

_ P.P.P.S. what does P.S. stand for and how many Ps can you add to it? _

He tucked the note onto the nightstand next to Amy’s head, of which barely anything was visible under the covers, and couldn’t resist pressing another small kiss to her forehead before leaving for work.

When he came back that afternoon, she was gone - obviously, he reprimanded himself, it wasn’t like she had to wait around for him, she had a job to get done.

But the kitchen was surprisingly clean, his cereals and chips neatly sorted and arranged in a cupboard, the dishes done and put away. 

His favourite red flannel was missing.

And there was a post-it note on his bathroom mirror, next to a clean tank top drying on his shower curtain rail, saying  _ P.S. stands for post scriptum _ . _ xx Amy _

-*-

He picked her up from the club every night after that, no matter how much it messed up his sleep cycle to go out at 4, 5am to get her and then get back to the precinct around 9 (or sometimes half an hour later, not like anyone expected him to be on time). He would roll his Mustang down the streets about a block or two from the club as to not to blow her cover, sending her a discreet text message and worrying about the short distance she had to cross on her own until she was safely in his passenger seat and shivering from the cold despite the jacket over her many revealing bar outfits. Sometimes he would pick her up from a diner two streets over, when she was starving from a long shift, and they would share some fries and chicken wings in comfortable silence, interspersed by little jokes and short talks about their ‘work’.

He would take her back to his apartment when she was obviously tired, not only because it was closer, but because it would actually get her into bed without stopping for note-writing or report-emailing in her delirious state. She had a toothbrush in her own little cup on the sink now, and a shelf for her stuff in the shower, and a change of clothes or two tucked away on top of the dresser, but his favourite red flannel never turned up again. His coffee table cleared up instead, the kitchen became sorted through every cupboard, and his medicine cabinet was now alphabetically organised.

When she was not quite as tired, he would drive the extra distance to her place, watch her plonk down at her desk to continue her files and sneak to the kitchen to make her a sandwich or a small snack. He’d tried to say his good-byes awkwardly the first few times, only to be met with a shaking head and a tugging hand on his shirt while she finished her notes and pushed him into the bathroom. He had a clearly labelled toothbrush at hers as well after that, some soap and a change of clothes, yet the red flannel stayed gone. There was a bottle of orange soda in the fridge and some cereal between the granola. 

They weren’t really  _ together,  _ together, he reasoned. They’d never discussed or even mentioned that first evening that brought her to his place. Nothing else had happened after, apart from the obvious sleep-cuddling and the many, many forehead kisses and sleepy cheek kisses and even sleepier tip-of-nose-kisses. 

But they were together, in a sense, weren’t they? They’d basically fallen into the routine of an old couple, despite not ever… deciding to couple up. She lived at his place as much as he lived at hers, building this routine of going home together and waking up apart. It was strange, and he supposed it should feel off, but in all honesty… it felt good. Her stuff belonged in his place, and her cold feet belonged between his warm calves, and his arms belonged around her for nightly snuggles. It was right. Maybe it was all they should be, all he should expect out of this. Not mention anything else, not push too far again and ruin it like the many, many times he’d done that before. 

Or maybe, this time, he should actually do something about it.

-*-

Her nights were still unbearingly long, and her sleep was still unbearingly short, but it was the best sleep she’d ever gotten even before this whole undercover assignment. She spent her time behind the bar ignoring all the flirts, watching out for any drug deals or other happenings, and thinking about whether she wanted to share some fries with Jake tonight or hope for another of his patented late-night-sandwiches. Looking forward to a warm bed no matter what, and a warm, soft body next to her, and a feeling of peace that let her drift into a deep sleep until a short alarm would wake her up and lips on her forehead would make her drift off again. It was all quite wonderful, but it wasn’t quite right.

They weren’t really  _ together,  _ together, she reasoned, and she didn’t like it. Despite the sudden closeness and comfortable routine they’d slipped into, they didn’t actually spend much time together apart from sleeping, and she was itching for more, for a proper  _ life  _ in this new situation they’d created, instead of just short glimpses of it every night. But maybe she shouldn’t expect so much more, maybe it was all just fragilely built upon this unusual situation of her undercover mission and would fall apart and end as soon as that ended as well.

As such, the night of her actual, final bust of the club was the longest and most unbearable. Sure, it was an overall triumph - with her information and help, they managed to arrest seven of the major players in Brooklyn’s drug scene, and got contact options for several more. Holt actually patted her on the shoulder as they stepped into the bullpen together at 4am after the arrests, and she immediately settled back into her desk to finally finish the paperwork for this case and do it as perfectly as she always would, no more tired spelling mistakes or run-on sprawlings of pen on paper from falling asleep at her desk at home (only to wake up in her bed all wrapped up and with another note next to her).

But then, that was it. She was done with the mission, the club, the long nights out. The last line had been filled out, the last tab filed into order, the folder closed and handed in on Holt’s desk as he nodded at her and told her to take the day off to recuperate.

She had to go home. It was 6am, and she had to go back to her place in a cab, not some rattly old Mustang, because she’d texted Jake that he didn’t have to pick her up from the club tonight and she didn’t even know when she’d get out, anyway. He’d only replied with a  _ K  _ minutes later and probably gone back to bed. It felt… horrible. It felt wrong, even though it had been her normal just over a month and a half ago.

Standing at the end of the bullpen after powering off her desk computer and moving to leave, she realised with a little shock that she was still dressed in her barkeeper get-up, her police badge quickly pinned to the waistband of her skinny jeans. A shiver ran down her back, and it was only half from the cold finally seeping into her. Granted, there was only the night shift people around to see her like this, but there was also Captain Holt, with whom she’d spent the last few hours, not even thinking what she looked like, and there was also-

_ Jake _ . There was Jake, stepping out of the elevator just now, slipping a warm hoodie over her shoulders as she mindlessly, automatically pulled into the sleeves. He zipped up the front and placed a kiss on the tip of the nose as if that was normal, as if that was just a thing they  _ did  _ right in the precinct. 

He shot a smile over her shoulder, confusing her even more until he yelled a quick “Thanks for the message, captain!” and she turned to see Holt nodding at them from his door and replying with a “Enjoy your day off, Peralta. Santiago.” before turning around again to his desk. Holt had texted Jake? Told her to pick her up? Had they talked about it during their day shifts? She knew Holt had sent him down that first night at the club to check in on her, Jake had confessed that pretty quickly, but she didn’t think he’d kept on reporting back to the captain after… everything else. 

“I asked him when you were off. You don’t have any money for a cab on you, do you?” Jake luckily explained in a quiet voice while steering her into the elevator and she realised he was right, since she’d obviously not gotten her share of tips today - she hadn’t even thought about it all. The door’s closed with their usual little ding, and she was still processing everything that had happened in the past five minutes as he cleared his throat.

“Well… guess it’s back to the real grindstone after today then, right? Back at your desk and to some door duty, probably.”

She nodded.

“Back to the good old routine.” He mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

She nodded again. Her throat was closing up. It felt horrible to think about it.

“Amy.” He continued, despite her never having said a word ever since she’d seen him step out of the elevator, she realised. “I don’t think I can go back to the good old routine. I think- I- No, I  _ know  _ I want to keep our new routine. Or something similar, at least. Baby steps. Maybe a date instead of, like, sharing bathroom cabinets. Not that I mind that. But, whatever you want. You know. It’s your choice. But I want to put it out there that I - I don’t want to go back to the old routine.” Jake cleared his throat again and looked at her, and she finally looked back. There it was again, that look - that softness and adoration from back during their first night, but there was something else there, too, something more - not just lust or desire that she’d sealed in her memory, but rather a mix of it all, a whole range of emotion and feelings, all focussed on her, directly on her.

_ Actually, now, THAT’s love.  _ the voice deep in her head said, and for once, she didn’t push it down or shushed it.

The doors opened with another ding to the garage, but neither of them noticed. Amy was already busy pushing Jake against the wall of the elevator, her lips on his, her hands around his neck pulling him as close as possible, his wrapping around her waist and pulling her up, kissing her back _. _

He drives her home like he has every night, back to his place. They stumble up the stairs and into his apartment, and this time there are no bottles anywhere to be knocked over. This time, she is not tiredly leaning against any walls, and when he picks her up and she wraps her legs around him, he drops her directly back on the bed. This time, when her bra comes off, there is no shirt quickly covering her up again, only his hands and his mouth and his lips and his tongue and-

and when he pulls down her jeans, the forgotten boxer briefs are back again, and Amy groans.

“Don’t laugh.” She scolds him before he can say anything.

“I’m not!” He defends himself, but he’s grinning for sure. “I think they’re cute. And they make your butt look da bomb.”

And now she’s laughing, and sure, okay, he’s laughing as well, but it’s good, it’s right, and pretty soon his mouth is too busy to laugh anyway.

They fall asleep cuddling after, and no alarm wakes them up this time, and when they finally blink awake in the afternoon, they share a smile and a soft kiss - not on the forehead, or the cheek, or the nose, but right on the lips. And she knows that there’s a toothbrush and a clean shirt and pants waiting for her, and he knows that the bathroom will smell of her fruity shower gel soon, and they’ll have coffee and some cereal and order delivery and spend the rest of the day with a movie marathon that neither of them will pay much attention to.

And it feels exactly the way it should be. It feels right. Finally, properly, really right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it!   
> I hope you liked my little foray into a very different get-together for Peraltiago.


End file.
